


The God of Death

by Morgan_nesbitt



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Do they count as siblings if they're not blood related and just met?, Dom/sub Undertones, Dominant Hela, F/M, INFINITY WARS SPOILERS, Implied Sexual Content, Please if you haven't seen Infinity Wars yet look away, Praise Kink, Sibling Incest, kind of?, submissive loki
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-09
Updated: 2018-05-09
Packaged: 2019-05-04 11:39:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,344
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14592225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgan_nesbitt/pseuds/Morgan_nesbitt
Summary: Hela was not a gentle creature, but sometimes, for him, she could be.





	The God of Death

He could do it. It was messy, poorly timed. If he failed, he would surely die. If he succeeded, he may die regardless. His base instincts left him twitchy, eyes darting, fingers curling. They whispered in his ear, tantalizing ideas of escape, encouragements, fears. Give up your weapons, they sang. Adapt. Survive. He’d done it before, he’d done it a thousand times—could he watch the light die in his brother’s single eye as he betrayed him one last time? He raised a hand in surrender, an easy smile plastered unnaturally across his face. If the bringer of death was anything, he was calculating. Would he place his trust in a man who had failed him once before? His approach was careful—it had to be—one step after another, searching for gaps between bodies, avoiding puddles of blood and gore. Asgard was not a place, but a people—a people who now lay dead and dying at their feet. But through all of his mistakes, of which there had been many, he still remained their prince.

How could he allow them to lose their king?

When death came for him, it did so swiftly. He’d expected more. There was no light, no memories. His life didn’t flash before his eyes. There was just an image of Thor, neck taut and tears glistening his eyes as he strained against his bonds. Then, darkness.

Was this all that there was? Was this the eternity that awaited him? A void of nothing, to match the screaming blankness of his mind? Breath rattled through his ribcage, though he supposed that it was no longer needed. He had failed.

“Well, well, well. And what do we have here?”

A chill worked its way down his spine. He knew that voice. Was this his punishment?

“God of mischief, of lies, of—what was it?” Hela’s eyes glinted through the dark, bright as a sun but much too cold to pass for one.

“Where am I?” Loki asked, bringing himself to his feet. He might be dead, but his pride was not. “And what, pray tell, are you doing here?”

“Why, this is my domain,” Hela spread her arms wide, lips quirked at the corners like she was staving off a smile. “And I think you should know why I’m here, little one.” Loki bristled, lips a thin line as she stalked gracefully towards him. “You and your foolish brother were the ones who sent me here.”

She possessed none of the theatrical getup that she sported on Asgard. Here, she was stripped to the barest of necessities, a simple dress, her hair falling in waves upon her shoulders. Loki should feel in control, still wearing his leather armour, and yet he was anything but. Her fingers crawled across his neck, feather-light against his skin, and she tapped her nail against his jaw. “It’s dreadfully boring down here. Have they sent you as a reward? A condolence?”

He raised his chin, refusing to lower his gaze. “You speak of me like an object to be traded or sold. What must they have done to you, Hela, to view your prince in such a way.”

Her lips twitched, the beginnings of a snarl, but she schooled her expressions well. “They did much to me, little one. But I know nothing of this prince of whom you speak. I see only a scared child, lost by his true father and abandoned by his chosen one. There are no princes in Hel, my sweet thing. Only a queen.” Her nail dug into his skin, prompting a bead of blood which she swiped away with her thumb. “I think it's time you learn how to kneel.”

* * *

 

There were no days here. No passing of time. Nothing but this endless battle for dominance. Hela never grew tired, only increasingly relentless. Loki refused to kneel, but his resistance only spurred her on, made her want it more. He couldn't say how long it took him to break, but he could remember the exact words she used to deliver the finishing blow.

“Don’t you want to be good for me?”

And he did. He really did. He was tired—of life, of death, of everything that came with them. He was tired of avoiding the rules, of playing the villain. He was tired of ignoring the pulsing heat that lit his veins with her every touch. His pride swelled in rebellion, clogged his throat, clutched his lungs, but he did it. He crumpled to the ground like a broken toy, forehead tipped to rest against her hip. He closed his eyes, listened to his own heart beat fitfully within his chest, and let Hela run her fingers through his hair. He didn’t want to see her smug expression. Most of all, he didn’t want her to know how good it felt to relinquish control, to hand over the reins, to hand over his soul.

She took him apart, piece by piece.

It began with his pride, so thoughtlessly offered up, so eager to rise within him. Hela couldn’t have that. His pride belonged to her now, and Hela didn't like to share. They were walking together, when she tried to wrangle the last of it from him. Loki was quick to learn that Hel was not darkness—it was whatever its queen designed it to be. Today, that meant a secluded walk through one of Midgard’s many parks, their hands entwined as she lead him across a bridge spanning a pond. She liked to pretend that the world around them was not comprised of death and decaying things, but the air still smelled stale regardless of the many trees she created to lighten it.

She came to a stop, turning to face him in the center of the bridge. His hand burned cold where it touched hers, like ice held within his palm. He hated that he allowed her to touch him like this. Hated that he enjoyed it.

“Tell me that you love me.”

He would not. He could not. “I love you.”

Her lips curved upwards, but her eyes were flat. “Tell me that you’d die for me.”

“I can’t,” he said, his own smile self-deprecating. “I’m already dead.”

This seemed to amuse her, and she took a step closer, closed the distance between them by another inch. “Tell me that you’d serve me. Even in life.”

It was a lie, but he was the god of lies. “I would.”

“Say it.”

Loki blinked, once. “What?”

“I want to hear you say it.”

Something about the way that her lips curled around those words set him on edge. She was mocking him, teasing him, making him a fool. He had known all of these things already, but what little anger he had left flared to life. “No.”

One eyebrow raised, slowly, considering. She looked pleased. “No?”

This was what she wanted. Defiance. She enjoyed knocking him back down. Loki straightened his shoulders, bared his teeth, and repeated, “No.”

One more step and she was pressed against him, the space between them gone like a vacuum. Her breath ghosted his ear, set his hairs on end, sent a shiver wracking through him. “I thought you were mine? Didn’t you want to be mine?”

_No_ , he wanted to scream. _I never wanted to be anything_.

He couldn’t force the words from his throat, could only stand there as she trailed her fingers carefully up his chest, mapping out his body like she wished to devour him and wear his skin as her crown. He didn't want this, and yet he did. He wanted it so badly that his teeth felt on edge. His body betrayed him, caved to her every touch, skin quivering beneath the pads of her fingertips as they danced across his collarbone. Those sinful lips found their way to his jaw, biting, kissing, marking him as _hers_. His legs trembled, arms dangled loosely at his sides. He wanted to pull away just as much as he wanted to bring her closer. He wanted to strike her down just as much as he wanted to kiss her. He didn’t know what he wanted, but if she were to stop now he may very well cease to breathe.

She pushed him, gentle touch turned bruising as he crashed into a wall. He hadn’t noticed the setting change, but this world was an extension of Hela’s mind, and it bent to her whims just as easily as he did. Her leg pressed between his thighs, pinning him into place, and a strangled noise broke from his throat. He hated this. He hated her. He hated how much he wanted it.

“Tell me, little one,” her lips brushed the corner of his, hands tangled in his hair, “would you serve me?”

He strained against her, but every movement sent heat spiralling through him. He wanted her to kiss him. Why wouldn’t she kiss him? It always ended this way—Hela ruthlessly working him up only to pull away before their lips ever meet. Only to leave him stranded, alone with his thoughts and his confused, thumping heart.

He could give in. Tell her that he would serve her. Tell her that he would love her. Tell her that he wanted her more than he wanted his life back. But something stalled him. Was it his pride? Or was it something else? A distant memory, a fragment of a scene. A man with a gauntlet on his hand telling them what was right, commanding the universe and killing those who disagreed with his vision. A man who killed him. A man who surely killed his brother.

Loki raised his hands between them, halting her advances. “Stop.”

“What?” Her frown was genuine. He had never stopped her before now.

His stomach throbbed with want. His heart burned with feelings that he still didn’t understand. But his mind was flooded with a sudden grief, and those waters cooled the rest of him. “I can’t do this now. I’d like to have some time alone.”

He insulted her, he could see it in the flash of her eyes, but she released him. When she left, the setting vanished with her, leaving him in that familiar darkness. Loki lowered himself to the ground, buried his face in his arms, and thought about home.

* * *

 

“You never did tell me, how you came to die.”

Hela was not subtle about death. Hela was not subtle about anything. They were laying in a large canopy bed, suspended in the center of an ocean. She hadn’t touched him, not since he had last pushed her away. It seemed almost like respect, though Loki wasn’t sure she was capable of such a sentiment.

“So?” She prompted, turning on her side to look at him. His eyes remained fixed on the canopy moving above him with the caress of the wind.

“Thanos.” It was all that had to be said. Her brow sloped, lips dragged into a frown. She had heard of him, then.

“How did that oaf manage to murder you?” She turned away, arms locked carelessly beneath her head. “You’re better than him in a fight.”

It was a compliment and although she did her best to disguise it, Loki still saw it for what it was. His face warmed despite himself. “He had Thor.”

“Ah.” She nodded, as if that explained it all. Perhaps it did.

* * *

 

Out of every setting she chose to share with him, Hela’s favourite was the throne room. She didn’t have to say it, he could see it in her face when she lowered herself onto the throne, watched as her body relaxed, fitting its shape as naturally as wine to its cup. The crown she wore was invisible, her people reduced to just one, but in those moments Loki saw her as the queen she claimed to be. It was easy to kneel, during those times. Easy to bow to the woman in front of him, the leader of his universe and his heart. She kept her distance. She always kept her distance.

He was staring, a painting of worship with knees touching the floor and hair shielding his eyes. When Hela opened hers, he saw the fire in them—the desire. But she remained seated, refusing to come to him, refusing him to come to her. Was this a part of their little game? Hela was fond of playing with him, tugging at his heart until the strings broke one by one, only to piece them all back together again. She was bored, and he was her new toy.

He remembered a time when that would have insulted him. A time when he had thought himself better. Thought himself a king. How foolish he had been, to think that he could ever emulate the regality that spilled from Hela’s every languid move. How foolish he had been to think that his place was anywhere but here, at her feet.

“I would serve you.” His voice came out a hoarse whisper, scraping his throat. When he swallowed, he watched her sharp eyes follow the movement. “I would serve you, even in life.”

He’d hoped that maybe this would change things. That maybe she would lift herself from her throne, pluck his chin between her fingers, and finally, finally grant him the pleasure of her lips. Instead, she smiled. “Good.” She said. She didn’t move. She didn’t touch him. She didn’t kiss him. But that one word set his every nerve on edge as if she had done all three. Later, when he thought that he was alone, he lifted his fingers to his lips. They tingled with the attention. He didn’t catch her watching him, but her smirk said more than words ever could.

* * *

 

This was one of the quieter nights. Days and nights didn’t exist here, but it kept Loki’s sanity to imagine that they did. Hela was sprawled, godlike, across her mountain of pillows. Loki stood to her side, like always. She watched him, like always.

“Come,” she said suddenly. He looked to her in surprise. “Sit.”

It sounded like a trap, but Loki’s legs were tired and his knees were sore and even more inviting than the pillows was the woman who sat atop them. He lowered himself next to her, movements slow and careful as if she might change her mind. She said nothing, waited for him to grow comfortable, and tipped her head to rest gently against his shoulder.

Hela was not a gentle creature, but sometimes, for him, she could be.

* * *

 

Those nights came more often, the ones where Hela would lounge and Loki would be invited to join her. She was softer in these moments, eyes less guarded, fingers exploring rather than claiming. Once, Loki had dared to return her touch—a simple brush of knuckles against her cheek—and she had sighed, breath warm against his skin. This Hela was not the same Hela who asked him to kneel or demanded he serve. This Hela shed her coldness, gave him a peek into the layers that existed beneath. This Hela was vulnerable, a version of herself that she would rather hide away.

“Do you hate me?” Loki asked, words whispered into the dark. They weren’t in the darkness, but the lights were dim tonight, the bed plush, breeze warm. “Do you hate me for taking his side?”

Hela’s smile was sardonic, but not unkind. “I knew that you would.”

Her fingers brushed his cheek, his chin, his jaw. “How?” She had not known him then. How could she guess what he would do?

“He was your brother. If Odin taught anything,” her lips twisted into something new, something that tried to be sarcastic but came out looking sad, “it was the value of family.”

Two outcast children, destined for greatness and terror. Was it fate that kept them together, even in death? Loki traced a finger across her lips, and she let him. Courage mounting, he leaned upwards, supported by his elbow, until his lips hovered a mere breath from hers. God of mischief, they called him, but he was no god. He couldn’t bring himself to close even this short distance.

“You say you will serve me?” Hela’s eyes were dark as they stared into his. “That you will do as I please? Obey my every command?”

His breath caught. “Yes.”

“Then kiss me.”

The noise that escaped him resembled a growl. It was animalistic, depraved, everything that he had told himself he was not. There was nothing gentle to the way their lips met, all teeth and tongue and desperation. They kissed like stars kissed the earth, a fiery collision of want, and lust, and need. Hela’s fingers, cold as ice, slipped beneath his tunic and wandered to his chest to splay across his heart. She would feel the way that it beat, erratic and unsteady, only for her. Her hand guided him down, until his back hit the mattress.

“I like the way you kiss me, god of lies,” she whispered against his lips. Every inch of his skin was aware of every inch of hers, so close but still so far. “Do it again.”

He could not disobey his queen.

When he later woke, naked and alone, Loki could think of nothing but her. Her eyes. Her lips. Her body moving so fluidly against his that he failed to accept them as two separate entities. The god of mischief and the goddess of death, tangled so messily around each other that one became the other. The darkness surrounded him again—there was no more bed, no sun, no Hela—but he didn’t mind. He liked the dark, sometimes. It was a reflection of his mind, a depthless chasm that held nothing but unanswered questions.

How did Asgard fare without their king? He wondered. Was Asgard a people, or did that sentiment die with his brother? Were they scattered across the galaxy, scared, without a home?

“Why shouldn’t we rule?” Hela had asked him once, hair tickling his cheek. “What makes Thor the king they desire?”

Her eyes had burned with barely suppressed fury, anger over years of injustice targeted at a man who had caused none of her pain. Loki knew that look well. It had been his, once.

“I know the answer to this one, actually.” He had said, turning his head to meet her burning look with a grin. “It took me a while, but I’ve figured it out.”

Her eyes were icy, but Loki was no longer intimidated by her. He had seen what she looked like without her many masks. “Do tell.”

“He cares, Hela.” Such a simple solution to a problem that had taxed him for years. “He cares about the people.”

It was ironic, how often Loki thought about them nowadays compared to when he should have been. Perhaps he was not born to rule, but he could have done so much more. He had dealt years on his anger, his jealousy, his pride. For what? His people were dead.

And so was he.

* * *

 

Hela, the goddess of death, did not like to share. But she learned.

Every piece of him that she had stripped away was returned, slowly but surely. She allowed him his courage, his independence, his pride. And with each, she gifted him a small chunk of herself, a glimpse inside, a look without the mask.

When the next man showed his face in Hel, she allowed him to join her in guiding his soul.

When, suddenly, the number of faces multiplied, she asked him to help her. It was not an order. It was a choice. A choice that she presented with an open face, eyes narrowed but emotions splayed wide.

He helped her, of course. His place was here. Not at her feet, but by her side.

When the universe imploded, destroyed by the hands of Thanos himself, Loki gained a new title.

“Welcome to Hel,” he said, lips quirked at the corners. “I’m the god of death.”


End file.
